Berlin Turing Test: 1 Man, 3 Women
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It was a late Indian-summer week in Berlin. My colleague Philip met me at Tegel airport mid-afternoon. This visit was planned as mostly vacation, just a touch of work to make it properly chargeable to our grant. I would be staying in his ground-floor visitor’s apartment rather than in some faceless hotel – reciprocity for similar hospitality on my part every year for the past three or four.
I’d visited Berlin for two weeks or more several times, but not yet met his family – wife, two daughters, and ancient family dog – just seen pictures and heard stories. The “girls” (21 and 24) were recently returned from simultaneous “student years abroad”, spent in the US. When we drove up, they ran out to greet us – the arthritic hound stayed inside, and Mom wasn’t yet home.
The daughters were stunningly attractive almost-identical blonds, both with absolutely note-perfect English – idiom, delivery, pacing, gestures, body language, the whole package. They did have cutely different accents due to one having spent her year in Michigan, the other in Mississippi. Having them there was a huge social relief: my German is pathetic (a whole three years in college over forty years ago – and never used hence nearly all forgotten now). Mom’s and Dad’s English was rough, awkward and self-taught, full of second-cousin words and grammatical foofaraws demanding unrelenting attention and, actually, requiring a lot of on-the-fly translation from their version into “proper” English. Hence extended conversation was an energy drain, but one relievable via the girls.
My host and hostesses gave me a quick grand-tour of their part of the 4-floor triplex. Modern and beautifully constructed: the Euro-windows eliminated outside noises completely, and each level was perfectly sound-isolated. Level 0, the ground level, was to be all mine -private bath and bedroom, and a solid-mattressed queen bed. Floor
was living and kitchen,
the two daughters’ bedrooms,
the parental suite.
Philip’s wife Julie arrived home shortly, in time for the first bottle of wine. It was a bit startling just how similar the three women were: genetics rule! We had a light dinner, and I was shown the entire kitchen before retiring – the parents would be gone to work when I got up, so I should prowl and help myself, just as Philip had done at my place.
I was up a couple of hours ahead of the girls: when finally they did arrive at table, I had coffee and eggs ready. They were sleepy, but friendly and apparently impressed by my industry, which they clearly thought simply mad. Lounging around the table at only about 55% wakefulness in their short, lightweight nighties, they were either unconscious of, or utterly unconcerned with, any possible effect on my libido of four long, pretty, smooth and decidedly female legs, and four occasionally-visible boobs. I chose not to object.
After breakfast we sat about with more coffee – I was the appointed coffee-guru because I hailed from Seattle, home of the ubiquitous Starbucks, Inc. They briefed me on their histories as students, their extended US travels, old boyfriends. Both were sans current local romantic interests – they hadn’t been back long enough for that to develop – but were actively looking! I got the stories about the family dog, now fifteen, very creaky.
Then they explained Mom’s early history, of which they seemed quite enamored: at age seventeen she’d begun singing in a touring rock band that had successfully played Europe and the Middle East for several years. Julie claimed Mom had had a reputation as a truly wild woman – which caused the girls some mild amusement.
That wildness had been part of Daddy’s attraction to her – he’d apparently matched it, and they had become an item within the band, finally married and produced these two. The girls insisted, and quite proudly, that although Mom was in her mid-forties now, she was as fit as they and that all three of the family women could wear the same clothes – perfect interchangeability.
Mid-afternoon, now fully awake and unfortunately much less dishabille, the girls announced that they had both gained weight in the USA and were going out for their daily 5-km run, part of getting back into good shape. It surprised them when I volunteered to go along. My normal running rig – Speedo and singlet – surprised them even more: they were wearing long, identical sweatpants labeled “UCLA Bruins”. They giggled at me: “Are you really going in THAT? Maybe in southern Cal, but it’s a bit odd for Germany!” I assured them that I intended to run thus. They looked at one another and shrugged, then grinned and said “OK, then, we’ll match you! Don’t want you to be a spectacle all by yourself. Wait a sec…”
They returned wearing identical running shorts and long-sleeved tee-shirts. They had lovely legs, to all intents and purposes optically indistinguishable, taut calves and quads, traces of old suntans. And if they HAD gained weight in the US, they’d already lost it – they weren’t distance-runner almanbahis skinny, but very nicely and gently fleshed, not a trace of cellulite anywhere, no dimples, no signs whatever of any excess avoirdupois past or present.
I issued compliments, they accepted gracefully and happily, seemed at least mildly pleased to have even such an old-fart male as myself being appreciative.
It was only two short blocks to a wonderful paved trail which ran through young forest and over gently-sloped dunes. It was the jeep trail built by the East Germans for patrolling the long-gone Berlin fence, the trail now converted into something more useful.
We passed a few pedestrians, mostly with dogs, and a couple of other runners, but got no untoward stares or glares. The path was marked – very Germanic – at 100-meter intervals. One wouldn’t want to get lost out here in the great wasteland!
I let the girls set the pace, while making it clear I could go faster if they wished – just because I had close to forty years on them didn’t mean I couldn’t keep up. They settled for slow, perhaps a 10-minute mile, just above a race-walk. When we got to their planned 2.5 km turning point, I suggested that we double their normal distance. With some gentle urging and encouragement, they agreed, reluctantly.
At about km 7, I very slowly and sneakily increased the pace – I’m a long-distance runner with decades of practice – and as we approached the final kilometer we were going at a more respectable speed. They were beginning to gasp a bit but it was clear they could handle it if they chose.
I urged them: “Come on! Let’s bust the last kilometer! Stick with me!”
I pulled them through it at my old slow-training pace, finishing that final kilometer in just under 5 minutes, a barely sub-eight minute mile. They were impressed with themselves – a personal best for both.
They hugged and thanked me, then insisted on my taking their pulses: 143, 148: mine was just under 90. They were amazed: I blamed it on my forty years of practice. They congratulated me.
Then Vera said, as we started walking homeward, “You are really in very good shape! And you’ve been running almost as long as our PARENTS have been alive! Wow. Good for you! I hope you intend to keep it up!”
I love bantering, flirting, with women, and it was clear that it wouldn’t be either lost, or upsetting, with these two. I of course could not resist… I muttered sotto-voce “Keeping it up is NOT one of my problems, but it sure is a long-term goal!”
It took half a conversational beat for the penny to drop; then they choked slightly, sputtered and turned that nice shade of pink reserved for blue-eyed Nordic blonds.
Carla took the bait, slapped me familiarly on the butt and said “Sheesh! You’re a dirty old man, you are. A very well-conditioned, smart, witty, dirty old man! I like that! But you know, we’re just innocent little girls. What’s Germany coming to, with foreign guests treating their hostesses like this – running us so fast, getting us all sweaty and tired, then making sexy jokes!? If we were responsible little girls, well, we’d obviously have to tell our parents!”
Each took one of my arms, and Vera said sweetly “Isn’t it lucky for you we’re NOT responsible little girls, just innocent ones?!”
Ten minutes later we were home and the girls were explaining the run – but not the little joke – to Julie, who had brought dinner-makings. She listened, studied us and commented on our sweatiness, and put an arm around each daughter. Julie had changed into shorts herself, and now, standing between them, the peas-in-a-podness of the three women was blinding – same height within an inch, same general haircut, same body morph, same weight, same, same, same! It was almost eerie, a near-clonal vision. Mom was also in quite good condition, as advertised – she liked bicycling and also working out at her gym.
The original ‘Three Graces’, reincarnated: hide their faces and hands and it would be VERY difficult to tell them apart.
Mom dropped an English Bomb of unusual clarity: “Off you go to the shower, girls! Father is coming soon to home with probably some more than necessary specialization of good food items, undoubtedly with too large quantities, as always for him! We should not be all sweaty for our group dinnertime!”
I took the hint, headed downstairs for my own shower.
Daddy arrived, complete with multiple bottles of German whites – “You must be trying many of our wines while here you are!” – and some exquisite freshwater perch. We worked together to assemble and cook dinner, the girls having changed into loose-fitting blouses and sweats – blouses which, like their nighties, allowed me an occasional and apparently accidental eyeful of braless boobs, even a rare glimpse of nipple.
Daddy cooked the fish. My libido simmered. Dinner passed in the grand European tradition, lasting some hours, and was an enormous success almanbahis giriş all around. The inside bottom of the fourth bottle of wine having been dried and inspected, we agreed it was time to retire.
Next morning at about 0730 Vera knocked on my door: breakfast in ten minutes, optional but probably a good idea. The parents would be leaving at once, but the girls had plans for themselves and me, I was not to be allowed to do any useful work for at least a couple more days! Vacation, like it or not!
I made it to the table, and was ordered to do the coffee. I performed. We luxuriated in fresh pastries, cold-cuts, coffee and juice. Philip departed for a short work-day, to be home mid-afternoon. Julie had a long string of errands to do, and a couple of hours at her own work, but could also return mid-afternoon – ergo we should all plan on being here together and would fix another dinner. Julie would get most of the materials enroute home, except bread which we three could get at the bakery in the mall.
Lunchtime arrived. Carla suggested we start with the required trip to the local rather large shopping mall, with its infinite supplies of fresh goodies in small specialty stalls. We could get both lunch, and dessert for tonight. Plus the bread, of course, if we managed to remember it.
The girls darted off to change, returned in short-shorts and midi-blouses, but not quite identical this time. We loaded ourselves into the family’s Mini-Cooper and took off.
Food shopping was quickly accomplished. We had a fine light lunch in the mall, and stocked up well on bread and edible etceteras. As we headed back to the main exit the girls took me between them arm-in-arm (a habit of which I heartily approved – having a warm firm boob pressing on each arm whilst I’m wearing a tee-shirt is quite strongly to my liking).
Halfway to the exit they halted us in front of a corner shop whose large display windows flaunted itsy-bitsy teeny-weenie bikinis and sexy, slinky women’s-wear, mostly lingerie, the mannequins and oversize photos emphasizing black, lace, and impossibly perfect boobs and legs. Women dressed for women, really.
Vera squeezed my arm: “Josh, please, would you mind terribly if Carla and I dragged you inside this store with us? It’s a PLOT you know! We planned this because we want your help. Just for maybe 30 minutes or so, max? We’ve been gone from Berlin for a long time and we both need new swimsuits because sometime soon this winter we are going to go to the Med for sunshine. Plus, all our sexy European underwear is worn out now, and this is the best shop in the entire city! Please?”
She batted her eyes at me ridiculously, and continued: “You can pretend to be our boyfriend, and we’ll model it all for you! After all, you’re male and we would value your opinion – we’re NOT buying this stuff just for ourselves, you know, even though we don’t have new boyfriends. Not YET!!”
My expression undoubtedly told them I’d be delighted to help. And it was the perfect chance to do some more flirting. “Of COURSE you can have me as visiting critic! And just to be completely clear, ladies, boyfriend to either or both of you is certainly a role I’d be happy to play either on stage or in real life! Any time at all. I find both of you hugely attractive physically, and also highly intelligent… and in women that’s my favorite combo.”
Vera simpered, and actually did a proper curtsey, which came off oddly given her shorts. Carla just smiled and nodded. I continued: “But this whole proposition contains a couple of flawed premises. Deeply flawed!”
God, but it was nice to be able to speak high-level English without any worry about successful communication!
“What flaws, exactly?” asked Carla, puzzled.
“Well, first of all, the world would pretty much agree that I’m far too old for either of you… boyfriend wise, that is.”
Vera interrupted and said vehemently, “Such NONsense! Or bullshit if you prefer! The whole world also knows that younger women are often very strongly attracted to older men, and vice versa. It’s a law of nature! It’s pure Darwin! You know, the bit of evolutionary theory about evolving behavior – especially mating behavior- that maximizes the reproductive potential of both parties … reproductive success, and all that biology stuff.”
She shrugged, grinned, and took a deep breath: “Plus, I certainly don’t think even a large numerical difference in ages matters at all, so long as the man is intelligent, active, nice and in good shape, and the woman knows what she’s doing. You are certainly all of those! So, NO, that premise is NOT faulty, because clearly it’s not illogical or silly or impossible that you COULD actually be a boyfriend, for either of us! Maybe even both of us simultaneously – if you had lots of money and stamina! Stranger things have happened, I’m sure! Besides which, we all would agree I’m sure that a great deal of human “reproductive activities” actually have almanbahis yeni giriş nothing whatever to do with reproduction and everything to do with both pair-bonding and just plain FUN. So there! What else?”
The soliloquy made me wonder if I’d touched a specific nerve – something in her background? “My idea of the second faulty premise…? Shall I be completely frank and honest?”
“Yes!” – they spoke as one.
“Well, ladies, if I were boyfriend to either of you, we simply wouldn’t BE here. Not at all.”
They both looked puzzled: “Why not?” asked Vera.
“You wanted honesty, so here it comes! That’s because, Vera, Carla, we’d be in bed fucking ourselves into exhaustion. I’m a very horny guy, and my women always have this little problem with me being both hyperactive and lasting a good deal longer than they expect. Some, I suspect, wouldn’t call it a problem, exactly. Honest enough for you?”
I looked back and forth between them: both had gone rather bright pink in the face.
Foot traffic swirled about and ignored us. I waited a second, then said “And there’s a third fault, too, that I just realized. It has to do with my personal tastes.” I nodded towards the displays. “That stuff, the fancy skimpy and expensive underwear, well, some of it is certainly ingenious engineering, but I don’t find most of it particularly sexy or erotic. Not my cup of tea. Other folks seem to go for it, though. You know your own tastes and your boyfriends’ tastes: I do not.”
Carla looked quizzical: “Not sexy? Not erotic? Then Doctor Josh, pray tell us exactly what DO you find ‘sexy’?”
“Bald-faced truth again?”
They nodded, Vera giggled, looked around at the scene again, muttered “This is a very, VERY strange place for this conversation, you know. Not that the conversation itself isn’t a bit weird! But go ahead and tell us… what is it, then, that you find to be SEXY, Josh?”
I smiled, took a deep breath. “You force me to tell all! To me, the sexiest thing in the world, the sexiest a woman can ever be, is when she’s lying in bed beside me – naked, all flushed and sweaty and gasping for breath because she’s just finished 12 or 15 consecutive orgasms pretty much non-stop. Now, THAT’s truly sexy!”
The ladies gawped at me for several seconds. Finally Vera asked “That many? Multiple orgasms? In a row?”
I nodded: “Sure. Why not?”
Carla shook her head, disbelieving. “Sounds like a WHIZZER idea to me… a “Great THEORY” as my teachers used to say. But Josh – isn’t that awfully rare for women? I’ve read over and over that it’s both difficult to do and quite unusual. Certainly it’s…” She searched for words, caught just the right phrase: “…it’s vanishingly rare for me personally!”
Vera nodded agreement.
I expounded. “It’s neither difficult nor at all rare, you two! It does require having a man who knows what he’s doing and who cares about his partner, and it helps greatly if the partner is receptive and enthusiastic and reciprocates, but honestly, it ain’t all that difficult, believe me! Every woman has the inherent CAPACITY for it. And the RIGHT to it. And the NEED for it! And should DEMAND it as a matter of routine! For sure, nearly – not quite- all of my own lovers have!”
We stood in silence for a few seconds. Then Carla said “Um. Interesting point of view you have! I like it, though. So… since we’re deep into this topic, standing here in this very strange place…” She rolled her eyes at the passersby who continued to ignore us en masse: “… we all know that there are different sizes and intensities of orgasms – are we talking little O’s or the biggies that tie your insides into knots? I mean, a dozen! Sheesh! Fifteen! I’d gasp, too! And what about yourself? Surely it isn’t one of yours to match every one of hers! That’s GOT to be impossible!”
I shrugged. “Usually for the lady it’s a mixture. Fifteen biggies would be pretty stupendous, you’re right. But either starting out or finishing up with three or four linked biggies, well, that’s another example of something that’s truly sexy. It’s also guaranteed to make serious wet spots in the bedding!”
They blushed again, in unison.
“And NO, ladies, of course it’s not one-to-one – although I never keep notes or a scorecard, I know that much. For me there are usually three, rarely four, in a multi-hour session. Apropos of our run yesterday, keeping it up is not a problem – but then, it’s not hard cocks that make lots of orgasms for women, it’s fingers and lips and tongues. And good technique. And LOTS of time!”
Vera sighed and giggled, muttered across me to Carla, “If he’s right, then I sure do feel short-changed by MY boyfriends! I mean, occasionally they manage to give me one or two of the little ones, but not often. And the really biggies are reserved for my electrical fingers!”
She flushed again: I said “Electricity is truly wonderful stuff, properly applied, isn’t it?”
Carla piped up: “I agree with you both… my boyfriends aren’t very good at finishing me off. It’s always so damned disappointing to get up on a nice strong sex-wave and then have it just melt away without any of that big crashing surf! That’s why I love my vibrators!”
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